


It's A Little Bit Funny

by bibliomaniac



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Hank, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, more detailed warnings in intro notes, reverse au, specifically a reverse au in which connor is 51 and hk800 is younger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 17:52:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18481342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliomaniac/pseuds/bibliomaniac
Summary: Months after the revolution, Lieutenant Connor Stern and his android partner Hank are teetering on the edge of something; they're both aware that they have feelings for one another, but they've thus far avoided the topic almost entirely.Hank is real fuckin' tired of it, honestly.





	It's A Little Bit Funny

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackeyedblonde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/gifts).



> kaye tweeted some about this iteration of reverse au (silver fox connor & earth 2 cb-ish bear cub hank) and so i am gifting this to her. i am also gifting my frustration to her, because it took me like nearly 5k to get to the Sex. this was supposed to be a pwp. god damn it. (jk, no frustration to kaye, only fic). title is sort of from your song by elton john
> 
> cws for this fic include: connor is a flirt and this could arguably be looked at at light sexual harassment (though it's never serious and he would always of course stop if requested), reference to substance abuse (minor overdose of sleeping pills), anxiety attacks, a bit of an argument/tenseness between hank and connor, mention of past minor character death via alcohol-induced car crash (connor was not the one under the influence, but was in the car)

CyberLife had warned Hank about his new partner. Lieutenant Stern, age 51, has a bit of a...track record, they'd told him, lips curling down derisively. Not anything criminal, not even anything bad. Arguably. But he's slippery to deal with, they said. 

And a flirt.

They made that one very clear. Lieutenant Connor Stern is one of the best officers of his day, a workaholic, and he's not a criminal, but he _is_ criminally forward. 

So as the taxi drove him towards the precinct, where he'd been informed he would almost certainly find Lieutenant Stern at most hours of the day, he preconstructed situations and outcomes, worked off his profile of the Lieutenant and devised ways to respond appropriately so as to facilitate a positive working relationship between them. Positive, but not outside the scope of his mission. Cordial, but not friends. 

Androids don't have friends, after all.

He feels well-prepared when he walks in, nodding to the androids working the front desk before passing through the doors to the bullpen. He scans all of the individuals working and sees his target, bent over his desk in a way that will likely cause back pain at his age. All that's visible is his hair—run through with streaks of silver and gray, though there's still some of a darker brown left, with a hint of wave to it that's been gelled back. Carefully controlled, much like the Lieutenant himself, if his briefing is correct.

He walks towards the man, hands behind his back, and says, "Lieutenant Stern?"

He's preconstructed the situation, but he didn't project the tilted head or the rich, low laughter as the Lieutenant leans back in his chair. "Oh, boy."

Hank's software responds unexpectedly, with something that feels almost like a jolt of electricity. He did not project this either. He'll have to send in a report. For now, though, he cocks an eyebrow. "Is something amusing, Lieutenant?"

"You're the android CyberLife is assigning to this investigation, right?" Warm brown eyes rake over him, from head to toe, settling on his serial number. "HK800. Do you have a name you'd like me to call you by?"

"Hank," Hank says, slow, feeling slightly off balance. "Pardon me for asking again, Lieutenant, but what about seeing me caused you to laugh?"

Lieutenant Stern smiles lazily, looking over him again. "Oh, nothing. It's just funny that they'd send a cute thing like you to me."

That jolt comes again, and with it the disruption of his software. "Why is that funny?"

"I'm guessing they just know I like cute things." The Lieutenant winks. "Corporate psychology, trying to soften me up, plying at my vices. Don't you think it's funny, Hank?"

Something odd settles in the pit of his stomach at hearing the Lieutenant say his name in that teasing drawl. "No," he says, still off balance, still a bit left of center, still—something. He doesn't know how to describe it. 

"Well, we can work on your sense of humor together," the Lieutenant says. "Later. A case just came in."

Hank had known that. He should have been the one to notify the Lieutenant. "Yes."

"Come on then, Hank. We should really get going. No time to sit around and play."

Hank never really feels like he catches a breath after that, never really feels like he's on even footing. Lieutenant "please-call-me-Connor-we're-friends-aren't-we" Stern has a way of doing that—disarming you, keeping you just a step behind so you're never quite caught up with him. It takes him some time, a revolution, and becoming a deviant to see that, of course. At first Hank mostly thinks he's just a bit of a cad. The Lieutenant prefers it that way, Hank has found. He keeps people at arm's length; doesn't spend time outside of work with colleagues, doesn't even spend much time out of work, doesn't have many good friends. 

Except for Hank.

Hank falls into a rhythm of flirting back at the Lieutenant more out of self-defense than anything. Even after deviating, Connor—the Lieutenant—he still makes Hank feel odd, like the sudden, jarring swooping when he expects to be a step where there is none. Fighting back is the only way to regain some of the ground he loses every time he's around Connor. 

(Fuck. The Lieutenant. He has to remember to call him that, or—or nothing. He just has to.)

"Good morning, honey," Hank says, sitting down in the desk that faces the Lieutenant's, his voice dry as he can make it. "I missed you."

"Aw, baby, you know I'd have been with you all night if I could," the Lieutenant says, flashing a smile up at Hank before returning to his work. Something in Hank flutters, which is a sensation he really should be accustomed to by now. It happens all the time around him. 

"We make you take your law-mandated breaks for your health and for the health of this department's quarterly review," Hank says, stifling a smile of his own. "Terribly sorry to deprive you of my presence, though. Say the word and I'll be there." He follows that up with a meaningful glance. He does mean it. He wishes the Lieutenant would let him help him more often.

The Lieutenant's smile fades slightly. Hank has been to his house before, but—never under pleasant circumstances. Only that one time when Hank found him passed out on the ground after taking just a few too many sleeping pills ( _"No, no hospitals! M'fine, just_ — _just wanted to sleep_ —"), and once when he called him after having an anxiety attack. "You didn't have to come, I'm fine, I'm fine," he had said even as he curled closer to Hank's chest, tears still making sluggish tracks down his cheeks. "I shouldn't have called."

"I'm glad you did. You know I'd come anytime you asked, Lieutenant," Hank had murmured. "Anytime at all." Perhaps a bit more honest than he had intended, too, because it made Connor, _damn it_  the Lieutenant stiffen in his arms and then carefully extricate himself. Coming too close to what they don't talk about, what Hank is almost certain is there but the Lieutenant would never let himself have.

That's the crux of the issue, really: the Lieutenant keeps everyone from knowing him, hides behind his work and a carefully constructed shield of flirtatiousness and easy calm, because he doesn't think he deserves to have anyone close. It's a deep-seated thing, and it's taken Hank months of observation and handling the Lieutenant with caution in order to see even a hint of the depths of it. The Lieutenant would only push Hank away further if he let himself show everything he's feeling—if he called him Connor, if he let himself love him with everything in him that screams it, screams to hug and comfort and never let go, and to kiss and—and—

"Hank," the Lieutenant says, amused. "You're a million miles away."

"Just planning where I'll run away with you when you finally admit that you're in love with me, Lieutenant," Hank says, dutifully continuing the charade they keep up with the practice of someone who's been doing it for all their lives. Which, basically, he has. He's pretty sure Connor has also.

(Fuck, it's getting harder to correct himself every day.)

"Oh, sweetheart, if you didn't know that already I'm not doing my job right," Connor says with another of those winks that destroy Hank little by little. God, what he wouldn't give for him to be saying this shit for real.

(His processors must just be overtaxed today. He'll—he'll just keep to saying it mentally. He has that much self-control. It'll be fine.)

They banter back and forth over their work, and it's nearly the end of the day before Hank withdraws his hand from the terminal. "I've just been alerted that the suspect in that case with the axe woke up. He's in Detroit Receiving. We can visit him anytime."

Connor visibly stiffens. "Uh."

"Lieutenant?"

Detective Collins walks over with a gait trying too hard to be casual to actually be so. "Actually, how about I handle that visit? You guys are so busy."

Hank blinks at him, then over at Connor, whose face is pale. "Thank you," he says slowly, remembering a similar expression on Connor's face when he slurred out "no hospitals" even when procedure dictated he go in to be examined after an overdose, albeit a minor one. "We'd appreciate the help. We are...certainly very busy."

Detective Collins flashes him a grateful smile, which more or less confirms Hank's suspicions, because if that offer were anything other than an excuse it should be the other way around. "Great. I'll get our notes back to you when we're done."

"Of course. Thank you again, Detective." 

He walks off, whispering something to his partner, who nods and stands up to follow him. So. Something the other people in the precinct are aware of, but that he doesn't know anything about. He gazes at Connor thoughtfully, tapping a finger on the desk. Connor isn't looking at him.

"If you take a picture it'll last longer," Connor finally says, but the sound of it is almost hollow. 

"I prefer the real thing." Hank continues to tap his finger on the desk. Connor's heart rate is rising, and he's beginning to exhibit other signs of anxiety as well. "Actually, I'm a bit tired."

"You?"

"Yes, me," Hank says lightly, "And I think maybe I'll take off early. To your house."

Connor huffs, still looking away from him, apparently at some point on the wall. "Uh-huh. You don't have to do this, Hank."

"To trespass on your property? I know that." He stands. "If you'd like to stop home intruders, I think you might need to be at your house as well."

"Oh my God, you're so unsubtle," Connor mutters, but he also stands with a shaky sigh.

"Was I trying to be?" Connor finally looks at him. It's a glare, but still—at him. Hank will count it as a success. "Let's go, Lieutenant. I feel like driving today."

"Of course you do," Connor murmurs, following after Hank towards where his car is parked. They don't talk all the way home. Jazz is one of the few genres they can agree on, and the sweet voice of Etta James sings to them in the background—a _nd I just can't get my poor self together, oh I'm weary all of the time, the time, so weary all of the time._

Connor is silent up until they reach his front door, and then he says, "Hank, you shouldn't come in."

Hank sighs. Now this he could predict. "Lieutenant—"

"It's my house—"

"And you're my _friend,_  Connor, I want to _help!"_

Connor's mouth drops open slightly, and it takes Hank a moment to realize what he's said. Connor's name. Apparently he doesn't have all that much self-control after all. He drags a hand through his curls, mumbling, "Shit."

"You should really go," Connor says, sounding tired and defeated, and Hank knows if he lets him go in there by himself, he'll have an anxiety attack and he'll be all alone to deal with it, and he won't call Hank this time either.

"Please, Lieutenant," Hank says, gazing at Connor with all the sincerity he can muster. "If you really want me to go, I'll go, but..." He leaves the end of that sentence unspoken, but he knows they can both hear it anyway. They both know he doesn't actually want Hank gone.

Connor presses his lips together in a thin line, then nods and opens the door wide enough for them both to walk in. He seems distracted, leaning down to pet Sumo with an absent hand and wandering eyes when he trots up to meet them. 

"So," Hank says, leaning back against the couch and watching Connor, "You're afraid of hospitals."

Connor goes completely rigid.

"Collins knows, and I'm assuming Fowler as well." Hank's fingers tap against his hip, now. This might be a bad idea, but he wasn't entirely facetious when he said he was tired earlier. He is tired—of keeping this up, of all the secrets, of—of Connor being scared of him, of _them,_ when he _knows_  they'd be good for each other. "Why are you afraid of hospitals?"

"Damn it, Hank, you don't have to run an interrogation all the time," Connor says, strained and—angry. He's mad. "Not with me."

"Except apparently I do, because you never tell me anything." Hank pushes off the couch and walks to stand across from Connor, arms crossing. "Why are you afraid of hospitals, Lieutenant Stern?"

"I don't _have_  to tell you shit, Hank," Connor hisses, turning his head.

"No. But I'd like to know. I'd like to know you, Lieutenant, and you—"

"You know me too well already, Hank, and there's no way you don't fucking know that," Connor says, low, dangerous, finally facing back to turn to Hank, hands on his hips. "You know me better than anybody, and—do you think I'd have let anybody come here, do you think—" He stops himself, shaking his head, turning away again, lower lip trembling. "You should go. You need to go."

"Here is where I'm supposed to be, Connor," Hank says, placing a hand on Connor's shoulder, and Connor freezes again, then steps back, shaking his head, over and over again.

"No. No. Get _out,_ Hank, I don't know why you're here but—"

"Don't fuck with me!" Hank yells, and Connor stops, surprised, looking up at him. "I'm not going to let you run away from this again, Connor, not—I've been trying so fucking hard to not—but it's—it fucking kills me, I want to be—more to you. _For_  you. The idea of leaving you here to hyperventilate into your couch cushion, of—of you taking too many sleeping pills again—I can't, Connor, I fucking can't!"

Connor's eyes are wide, his mouth parted but soundless.

"You don't have to acknowledge what's here. I won't ask that of you right now if you don't want me to. But god _damn_  it Connor, you can take the world off your shoulders for a single fucking night and let me fucking _be_  here, at least."

"You swear more than I thought," Connor says dazedly.

Hank's eyes narrow.

"God, you're right. I'm sorry. You're right." Connor walks over to the couch, slumps down on it, hands running over his face and smoothing back over his hair. A curl escapes from the gel to fall over his forehead, and Hank wishes he could touch it. But not now, not with everything already so fragile. He can only hope for later.

"My brother died when I was 30," Connor says abruptly, and Hank turns to him, surprised. "Did you know that? Silas." He goes quiet again, and Hank looks up a Silas R. Stern. Died age 30. Car accident. "It was my fault."

"The person at fault in this file—" Silas had been driving under the influence, with Connor in the passenger seat. They were taken to...oh, fuck. Detroit Receiving. Silas died on the operating table. It makes an unfortunate amount of sense.

"I don't care what the file says," Connor says, something ugly crossing his face for a moment. His fingernails are digging into his knee. "It was my fault. I knew he'd been having trouble with alcohol, I—he'd fallen in with the wrong crowd, he wasn't himself—I knew that, God, I tried to get him to let me drive, but he was—fuck." He inhales, deep and long, and the breath comes out a sob. "He said he wasn't drunk and I wanted to believe him. But I shouldn't have, I should have intervened sooner, I'm the oldest of us—" Hank is already looking at the birth records now. Triplets. Connor is barely older, on the order of nine minutes, but of course that doesn't matter to him. "I should have stopped him, months before or even just before—it's my _fault_ —"

Hank weighs his options and goes for maybe the riskiest one, but also the one he hopes will calm Connor down the fastest. He sits down right next to Connor and draws him into a tight hug. "It's not," he murmurs into Connor's ear, holding him tighter when Connor gulps in air. "I know it's not."

"How could you know that," Connor asks, and his tears soak into Hank's shirt. 

"Because I know you. Like you said. I know you, and I know if there was anything you could have done, you would have done it. I know you're always too hard on yourself, pushing yourself to be better, and I know you're not a bad man. It wasn't your fault."

Connor fully breaks down then, clutching at the back of Hank's shirt and sobbing against his neck. Hank just strokes along his back, rocking them back and forth. 

"Why do you stay here?" Hank hears after a few minutes, muffled against his skin.

"Because you need me right now."

"No, I—Hank. There's so much of the world you haven't experienced. There's so much I...can't...give you."

Hank pauses. He tries to pull Connor back to look at him, but Connor only clings harder. It's the closest Connor's ever come to talking about this, he's pretty sure. "I think you know why," he finally says.

Connor extricates himself, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. There's something painfully adorable about it. "But you—can't. Shouldn't," he corrects, brow furrowing. "Not with me."

"Why not with you?"

Connor huffs. "Because I'm—"

"Name one reason that's not predicated on your insecurities," Hank says, raising both of his eyebrows. "You're a kind man, incredibly smart, incredibly dedicated. Funny, sweet. You want to help people. We have similar goals in life, we work well together, you are incredibly attractive and I imagine we'll be very sexually compatible."

Connor chokes, blush rising high on his cheeks. 

"There's not a reason you could give me that would make me want anyone other than you, Connor." He crosses his arms. "So you're going to have to deal with that one way or another. I'd like for it not to be by pushing me away again."

"And how would you like it?" He mostly still sounds strangled, but there's an undercurrent there of their usual flirtation but—different. Deeper.

Hank shrugs. "I thought you could start by finally fucking kissing me. But I'm open to suggestions."

Connor stares at him, then laughs, bending over in half with the force of it, so hard that when he comes back up again there are tears of a different kind beading at his eyes. "Oh my god, Hank."

He could have the decency to not laugh at least, Hank thinks, offended. "Is something amusing, Lieutenant?"

Connor seems to recognize the callback, and his eyes glint when he rests his chin on his palm. "Oh, nothing. It's just funny."

"What is?"

"It's funny that I ever thought I could keep myself from you." His eyes are still puffy and red-rimmed, there's still the remnants of tears and snot on his face, but Hank feels just as off balance as ever looking at him. "Don't you think it's funny, Hank?"

"Not really," Hank says archly, and Connor laughs again and then—he kisses him.

Hank hadn't preconstructed this. Or. Well. He'd imagined, fantasized, about kissing Connor a million times in a million different ways, but this specifically—and how it feels—God, he couldn't have predicted how good this feels for all the processing power in the world. He's moaning before he knows it, trying to get closer, impossibly closer, hands roaming all over Connor's back.

"Easy, honey," Connor says, pulling back—fuck, he doesn't want him to pull back, he wants to keep doing this forever and ever—"I'm not the sort to go back on my decisions. We have time."

"Not enough to do all the things I want to do with you," Hank breathes, stealing another kiss, then, "Decision? What decision?"

"The decision to stop pretending like I'm not terribly, completely, irrevocably in love with you." Connor smooths a hand down his back. "That one."

Hank blinks, grins, ducks his head. "If you haven't gotten the idea yet, I'm in love with you too."

"I had thought so," Connor says, "But I'm glad you said it anyway." He kisses at the corner of Hank's mouth, then back properly at his lips, nudging them open with his tongue. "You don't even know, darling," he whispers in between deep, searching kisses, "You can't know how hard I've had to work to keep myself from—God, you're so—"

"Well, you don't need to keep yourself from me now," Hank says: an offer, an invitation, one made all the clearer by his lidded eyes, how he licks his lips to draw all traces of Connor from them. "Please feel free not to. I think I might know better than you think."

Connor's eyes go dark, and he inhales once before saying, "All right, upsy daisy." Hank might have needled him for the lame-ass saying if he weren't too busy gasping, because Connor lifts him up like he's nothing, and Hank is well aware that he's not. And, well, it's not like he didn't know Connor was deceptively strong—he'd orgasmed to the thought of it for a week after Connor slammed a perpetrator into a wall—but feeling it actually being used on him...

"I don't think my feet ever touch the ground when I'm with you," Hank says, quiet but intense, and Connor looks at him strangely for a few moments. Soft, and fond, and—and in love, Hank thinks. He's thinks he's allowed to think that now.

But the expression dissipates soon enough in favor of a corner of his mouth lifting. "Well, if I had my way, they wouldn't." He opens his bedroom door one-handed and drops both of them onto his bed, immediately going to Hank's neck to kiss down to his shoulder. One hand heads to Hank's shirt, to tease at the hem, but the other tangles into Hank's hair. "Fuck, it's as soft as I thought it would be," he says, before latching onto a section of Hank's neck. His neck isn't particularly sensitive, but Hank relishes in the action anyway.

"Have you thought about my hair often?"

"You kidding me?" Connor flashes a grin at him—all teeth and self-assuredness and pure seduction. "From the day I met you, sweetheart. It was like you walked straight out of my dreams and right up to my desk."

"Oh," Hank says, feeling a bit weak.

"Cute curly-haired bear cub with a smile like the sun? It's why I was laughing, honey, I figured they probably sent me someone they knew I couldn't help but have a soft spot for. Like you were made for me."

"I'd like it if I were," Hank murmurs, catching the hand from his hair to kiss Connor's palm.

Connor stares at him again, then rests his forehead against Hank's clavicle. "Jesus, Hank, you're better than I deserve."

"Agree to disagree," Hank says dismissively. "You should kiss me again."

The laugh lines around Connor's eyes crinkle when he says, "Sir, yes sir," and does exactly that.

For all Hank is the one who doesn't need to breathe—at least, not in the same way—he's also the one who has to break apart periodically, because Connor seems intent on losing all his breath to Hank, just as loathe to be apart from him. He grinds against Hank every now and then, gasping against his mouth, until Hank stops him with hands on his hips and says, "Take your clothes off already, Jesus. It's like you _want_  me to rip them off."

Connor laughs into kisses on his cheek. "Sure thing, boss." He goes for his shirt's buttons, efficient as he is in most things, and shrugs it off, climbing off the bed and heading towards the closet.

"You're hanging it up?" Hank asks incredulously, pulling his own unbuttoned shirt off and throwing it and his undershirt on the floor as an example for what really should be done here. 

Connor stops stock still, staring at Hank's chest. "Well. No. Not anymore." He drops his shirt on the floor and pulls off his undershirt to join it, clambering back on the bed to run a wondering hand over the golden curls running their way down his belly, back up to his nipples. "Fuck me running," he says, awe coloring his voice.

"I think that would be difficult, but we can evaluate the possibility at a later date," Hank says dryly. 

Connor flicks his shoulder. "Smartass." 

Hank saves any further quips for later in favor of looking at Connor, reaching out a hand of his own to linger over freckles, over the scars on his body, resting on one on his abdomen. "Knife wound."

"Mm. Not life-threatening." 

Hank accesses the relevant files and makes a face; Connor's downplaying that one quite a bit. But he'll let him have it for now, when he has other priorities. He unbuckles his belt, slides it from the loops, throws it on the floor, heads for the button of his jeans—

"Let me?" Connor murmurs, kissing Hank's shoulder. "If that's all right."

It is more than all right. "Sure," he says, and definitely does not squeak at all. Connor undoes the button and the zip with something approaching reverence, touch light and teasing as he pulls down the waistband. He runs his palm down Hank's legs with every inch revealed to him, and Hank shivers.

"Connor," he definitely does not whine, and Connor hides his smile with a kiss to Hank's knee. 

"I like how you say my name," he says, throwing Hank's jeans to the floor. "Much better than 'Lieutenant', though anything sounds good coming from you."

"Yeah?" Hank asks, beckoning Connor forward so he can work at removing his slacks.

"Oh, absolutely." He lets Hank take off his belt, but steps out of his slacks himself, pulling them down along with his underwear so his cock springs free. "You have a wonderful voice, sweetheart. Dreamed of you talking to me a lot."

"I already talk to you," Hank says, swallowing as his eyes stay trained between Connor's legs. God. God, all of this is so much better than he imagined.

"Not what I meant," Connor purrs, back on the bed and playing with the elastic of Hank's boxers. "Dreamed of you telling me what you'd like me to do to you." A kiss to Hank's length over the fabric; Connor's eyes flutter shut. "For you. Dreamed of you talking about what we could do together."

"Everything," Hank breathes, and Connor's eyes open, and he looks so very in love with him, and Hank is sure he looks the same. "Everything, Connor."

"And tonight?"

"Tonight...you should fuck me." Hank scoots forward in the bed to be closer to Connor, so he can look at him straight in the eyes. "Because ever since I deviated—maybe even before. That's one thing I could never stop thinking about. You, working me open and splitting me open on your cock, and finally taking what you want from me. What you need. That's what I'd like you to do to me."

Connor's eyes look very dark. "Oh, is that all?" he asks, just as dark and rich and wonderful.

"Well. A selection of the whole."

"I think I can manage that." And with that, he pulls off Hank's boxers, rubbing over his thighs with his thumbs. "Beautiful," he says breathlessly. "God, you're beautiful."

"So are you." Far more beautiful than him, in Hank's opinion, lithe and graceful where Hank is stockier, broader. But then again, he might have a bias. Connor is the only person he's ever found attractive in a personal way.

Connor reaches to a bedside drawer, fumbles around with it for a few moments until he's produced a bottle of lubricant and a condom.

"You don't need a condom, I can't contract any STIs—"

"Do you want to clean yourself out tonight? Genuine question." Connor is busying himself squirting some of the lube from the bottle on his fingers and rubbing it around, and looks up at Hank's lack of response.

Hank tilts his head, then shrugs. "Not tonight, I suppose." 

"All right, then." Connor kisses the tip of Hank's nose, then his lips, then down his neck, chest, belly, down all the way to his cock, where—

"Oh," Hank says, once, then again, louder. " _Oh."_

He's imagined this, too, Connor kissing at the head of Hank's penis, licking at it, wrapping his lips around it. But the sight of it, the sound of it, Connor making little pleased noises as he takes him deeper— "Oh, fuck," he groans, resting a hand on Connor's head. "Fuck, _Connor."_

Connor brings one hand around to circle at Hank's rim, and he inhales sharply. "Shit. No—no, keep going, I can't feel pain, just—" 

Connor acquiesces and begins the process of opening him up. One finger, slow, then a second finger to stretch him out further, then a third. This isn't strictly necessary either, but Hank likes it, likes the warmth of Connor's fingers inside him, probing, searching—

"Oh my God, holy fuck," Hank moans, hips thrusting up into Connor's mouth accidentally as Connor hits the bundle of sensors made to mimic his prostate. Connor gags slightly, but his brows just furrow and he takes Hank deeper still, almost like he's bothered that he gagged in the first place. "Connor, please, fuck, please—"

Connor pops off, licking his lips. "Please what?"

"You know what, Con, _please_ —"

"I'd like for you to say it," Connor says, obviously not unaffected with how his breathing has picked up and his voice is raspier than normal, but he still seems a lot more in control than Hank is right now, a thumb circling perilously close up his thigh. Hank kind of likes it. But he thinks he might like it even more if he loses that control, so he gives in.

"Fuck me, Connor, please fuck me, I need your cock in me right the fuck now or I swear I'll—spontaneously combust on you, I fucking swear it, _please_ —"

Connor's laughing _again,_  but there's that fond light back in his eyes, and he's opening the condom packet to slide it on himself, positioning himself at Hank's entrance. "Well, that would be a shame for our first night, wouldn't it," he says, and pushes in.

It's slow at first, and as much as Hank keens and wriggles and tries to get Connor to go faster, Connor just places a soothing hand on his belly, biting his lip, saying _no, baby, I don't want to hurt you._  Hank can't be hurt by this, but Connor finally in him is scrambling his mind a bit too much for him to say it.

He pushes in inch by inch until he's flush, and then stays there a few moments, just breathing slow, measured, hands on Hank's chest. It's almost like he's—oh, god damn it. "Connor, for fuck's sake, you know I love you however, but you don't have to be in control here," Hank growls, bucking his hips forward.

Connor blinks, surprised. "It's your first time, Hank."

"So give me something to remember," Hank says, batting his eyelashes at Connor, and Connor—smiles, and shakes his head.

"You're really something, darling," he says, and pulls out, and then slams back home.

(Hank definitely screams. He's done denying the sounds he's making; they're not exactly subtle anyway.)

Connor doesn't do anything by halves, and the pace he sets is hard and rapid, and just as precise as his work. His eyes are closed, screwed shut in concentration, but he's making noise now, at least— "Hank," and, "God, honey," and then there's no words at all, just him panting with the exertion and his mouth falling open, sounds building from deep in his throat, moans and wailing and whimpering.

Hank would be very proud of himself if he weren't getting fucked within an inch of his life right now, which he absolutely is. He barely has the energy to cling to Connor, groaning and gasping at particularly well-angled thrusts. A million-dollar machine reduced to something primal just because of some good dick.

It's funny, almost, which he'll share with Connor later, who will laugh and push against his shoulder, blush rising on his cheeks again.

But for now, he just grasps at Connor's shoulders, rakes his nails down his back, brings his legs up to wrap around him. Anything to hold on, anything to bring him closer. He can hardly believe he's here, precisely where he's wanted to be for so long, but then, Connor has always surpassed all of his preconstructions, hasn't he, always left him off balance and then taken him soaring.

"Con, I'm—I think—"

"Me too, baby, you can let go," Connor says, strained, and his eyes open and he hits Hank's prostate again and brings down a hand to Hank's cock, and before he can even touch it Hank is gone, holding his breath and straining, back arching up into Connor to bring them closer than close as he comes between them.

"Fuck," Connor sobs, "Hank, God, I love you," and then he's coming too. Hank wishes, briefly, he had opted for no condom, that he could have felt Connor's cum dripping out of him, brought it to his mouth and tasted. But, well. They have time.

They both take in huge breaths coming down, Connor shaking like a leaf before he slumps against Hank, mouthing idly at his skin, nuzzling in closer.

"The sooner you take off the condom, the sooner we can cuddle," Hank says after a few moments.

Connor snorts against his skin, then devolves into full-on giggles. "Anybody ever told you your pillow talk needs some work?"

"No," Hank says. "I've never done any pillow talk before."

"Mm." Connor kisses him, then pulls out, knots off the condom, and throws it into a small trash can at the side of his bedroom. "Well. I'm happy to give you more opportunities for practice." He climbs back into the bed and draws the kicked-off covers over them, cuddling into Hank with a happy sigh. "But for now, your requested cuddles."

"Bullshit, you wanted them too."

"Did I ever say I didn't?" Connor rests his head on Hank's chest. "We still have conversations we need to finish, you know."

"Now who sucks at pillow talk," Hank grumbles, wrapping an arm around Connor to draw him closer, drawing his other hand to stroke at the loose curl he'd wanted to touch so badly. "Later. I'll still be here."

A slow, pleased smile spreads across Connor's lips. "Yes, I suppose you will be."

And Hank kisses him, and they cuddle until Hank's in stasis and Connor's asleep, and when Connor wakes up it's with that same pleased smile and a whispered, "You're here."

And Hank keeps being there. There's no place he'd rather be, after all.

(When they walk into work, and Hank says in his usual deadpan, "Thanks for last night, babe," and Connor winks and says "Anytime," it's a little bit funny: nobody even blinks an eye. They've been flirting long enough that nobody catches on that it's real this time. 

But that's okay. They can keep the joke to themselves for now.)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i sorta got the inspiration for this after reading the tweets and then just...powered through it for three days, so i apologize that this isn't an update for one of my other fics instead pff. but hopefully it's all right anyway! if you want to talk to me elsewhere, my twitter is [@boringbibs](https://twitter.com/boringbibs) and my tumblr, though i'm on that less frequently nowadays, is [anuninterestingperson](http://anuninterestingperson.tumblr.com). have a lovely day my friends!


End file.
